


knife fight

by sleepfighter



Category: Tenjho Tenge
Genre: Dream Sex, F/M, Ghosts, Late at Night, Nightmares, Post-Canon, Spoilers, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-14
Updated: 2012-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-31 05:02:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepfighter/pseuds/sleepfighter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not his fault he has developed a thing for cuts, for sharpness, he will maintain. But it has been…useful, with the sort of woman that tends to end up in his bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	knife fight

**Author's Note:**

> Right. So I have no real explanation for this except for the fact that I did it, but uh. Have some vore fanfic for Valentine's day?
> 
> Please see the end of the work for more explicit warnings.

She curls his fingers across his collarbone--and while, intellectually he knows, _he's not awake, she's dead and gone_ \--he can't help but shiver a little at her touch. They never managed to figure out how to touch each other properly, even at the end. Although it doesn't really mater for very much. Above him, in the not-here, she grins, her teeth flashing through the darkness that is all he can see, except for her. 

Sit down, she rasps, we've hardly started. It would not do to leave so easily, he thinks, and so his dream self manages to fold himself into a kneel in the dark. Her fingers travel down to his clavicle, and stop a little bit further on, warm, right above his mended heart. 

He says, quite cool, is there something that you want?

She grins again, wide. I'm not sure, she says. Maybe if I could have a taste, maybe that would help me to remember. For all that she knew the meaning of the word "compact", he rather doubt she'd ever known the true meaning of the word small. But his blood hammers through his skin, his muscles and down to his bones, and he is still real, and she is no longer, and surely, for someone who'd been as vibrant as she was, he can spare a little bit of who he still is.

He extends his hand to hers, smiles a little as she settles astride him lightly. Women are supposed to be such delicate creatures, you know. A little taste won't ruin your appetite? (This is of course, a lie: he'd never known the touch of any women like that. None who counted.)

It is her turn to tremble, slightly, although the look on her face is anything but demure. Perhaps hungry, as it traces over his neck, its pulse. Oh, she says, leaning forward so that her breath ghosts across his bare skin for a moment before she closes in, quite sure. Her teeth are like knives, and yet, she doesn't so much split him open and suck him out like he expects. It feels more like she's coming home, where she's always been, to have her sink her teeth into his breast until he's welling up blood around her tongue. 

She laughs as she finishes lapping up, mouth dancing across his skin like a tendril of flame. It's complete with the feeling of sparks shooting all over his bare skin, everywhere. (He's never bothered to sleep in more then underwear, and she, the shameless thing that she is, isn't wearing more then a thin yukata, tied lazily closed, and concealing not much of anything.) I suppose that was greedy of me, wasn't it? she asks as her hands trail under the cut, playing with the little dribs and drabs of blood still leaking out. But now I think I want a little more. Do you think you could stay a little longer?

He reaches out, tugging at her other hand. I could be persuaded, perhaps, he says, trying to ignore the flush that's racing under his skin now. But what's stopping me from taking what I want, instead? 

He presses his lips to her neck, bites. His teeth are not as sharp as hers, but they're big. If her blood still raced underneath her skin, they'd crush a enormous bruise there with the way he's sucking on to her, almost as if he could bring some of her back if he could just hold on to enough of her. There's some color there right now, as he lifts his mouth away to consider his handiwork. _Close enough_. He bites his way down, pushing the yukata away and down her shoulders, running his fingers gently up her sides as she moans, her heels digging into his thighs. 

Once he's satisfied that he's made his mark properly on what passes for her skin, he presses up and in to her mouth, bites her lower lip and runs his tongue across her teeth. He's savoring the taste that they create together, something sharper, as she shifts, presses a hand to his dick through his boxers. is brain, heightened as it is with the ghosts of adrenaline and imagination stutters to a halt, to feel how sharp her nails have become as they cradle his rapidly swelling dick, pricking into sensitive skin through the silk of his boxer briefs. (It's not his fault he has developed a thing for cuts, for sharpness, he will maintain. But it has been…useful, with the sort of woman that tends to end up in his bed.)

She takes advantage of his pause to run her nails all over him, shredding his underwear entirely in the process. Reaching back up, she swipes a little bit of the pooled blood off his chest before she lazily strokes her hand over his dick, once, twice, laughing as she stops. I think i'll be saving that for a little bit. Got to soften that hard head up some more, there. She reaches out to push him down, and he finds himself sinking, uncoiling as she runs those nails over his thighs into what feels sort of like a soft futon on a hardwood floor. Just like he'd always imagined it would, really, and isn't that the point? 

He doesn't have too long to think about it though, because she's guiding his hands and crawling up to his mouth, and he knows what to do for this, at least. He's not gentle as he opens her up, using his teeth with his tongue and lips, and given the way she's pressing her fingernails into his shoulders, she's enjoying that. He adds little bites at her clit to get her to writhe, dragging her hands over his arms and shoulders, and he locks his arms, holding her in place as he takes his time coxing her into an orgasm. He'll ignore her hissed and moaned threats and the hands battering at his and causing what would be all sorts of interesting cuts to have to explain to his security later if this were real, because this is something he's wanted for himself, pure and uncomplicated as it gets. But finally, she stiffens, crying out in a surpassingly soft tone as she finally comes. He continues to hold her in place until she's done shuddering out her pleasures, and he lets her go.

Maybe she'd soften into his arms a little at this point, if this was anything but a dream, but here, she's in motion, sliding out of her robe entirely and down, straddling him again. He only has a few seconds to sit up, to brace himself before she's sliding on to his dick, and he gasps again. Where she'd been warm before, she's blazing now, and it's almost too uncomfortable to bear. But he can't stop himself from thrusting up into her as she leans down to his neck and bites clear through the skin and down. 

He hisses out a curse, but this is far and away past the point of no return, and he finds himself still thrusting into her as she starts to systemically, starting with his skin and guts and down to his heart. Her thumbs press at the skin above his heart before slipping in and down, drawing him open to her. If he was doubting the notion of it all being a dream, he finds himself anchored firmly in his body, impossibly so. His sense are divided amongst sharp pains, the stench of his own blood mingled with her arousal and that painful warmth that is still perfectly her until he arches up in to her one last time, finally spent. As he begins to fade, she reaches out one more time, to brush his bitten lips, her smile still bright against the red, although not as white.

He opens his eyes and stares up at the celling, at the light reflected from the city, shaking slightly. His bedclothes are crumpled and damp with sweat and come, and once he thinks he can stand without falling over--a noise that would definitely attract a more overt form of attention--he pushes himself into the private bathroom in his suite, palming on the light. He's had enough of darkness for one nigh. But he's riveted by what he sees in the mirror before him.

Mitsuomi reaches out to trace the ragged bite on his chest, which burns, underneath his unsteady fingertips.

**Author's Note:**

> A more explicit warning: the viewpoint character is experiencing this as a highly sexualized dream, with a forced perspective, cannibalism, and ambiguously trippy ending.


End file.
